


When All's Said And Done

by SemperAeternumQue



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Family Fluff, Gen, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Sea-longing, Second Age, Suicide Attempt, Third Age, a fuckton of others show up, it takes a loooong time to get to that happy ending, just tagging the major characters mostly, really should have been a oneshot but it was so long i decided to split it, tags will probably be updated as i figure out what else to tag this with, wandering Maglor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:00:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22359118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SemperAeternumQue/pseuds/SemperAeternumQue
Summary: There are three truths in Arda Marred:Love will always lead to grief.Evil will always rise again.And, no matter what, Maglor will always find his way home.
Relationships: Celebrían/Elrond Peredhel, Elrond Peredhel & Maglor | Makalaurë, Legolas Greenleaf & Maglor | Makalaurë
Comments: 54
Kudos: 99





	1. The Pull of Imladris

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all, it's ya boi, Semper, back after months of radio silence with another fic about (guess who) Maglor! So welcome to this hot mess of a fic that got a title about fifteen minutes ago and was thrown together, barely edited, and yeeted violently onto AO3. I wrote this during NaNoWriMo, but only now am I actually putting it out for the world to read. Enjoy!
> 
> Warnings: mention of/allusion to suicide and a suicide attempt, violence, self-esteem issues (guess who has these? well me but also Maglor), near-death of character, mentions of torture, generally a lot of bad shit but none of it's graphically described. (Only some of these show up in this chapter: there's more!)

The first time Maglor stumbled into the river valley, it was an accident. He had taken an arrow to the arm last time he crossed paths with orcs, and was searching for any sign of civilization, any place there might be a healer.

As Maglor rounded the bend in the path, he beheld a beautiful valley, with elegant buildings scattered amongst the gorgeous scenery. A river flowed swiftly near the bottom of the valley, and the buildings in it seemed to glow.

In any ordinary circumstances, Maglor would have steered well clear of any such clearly elven place, but at this point it was either seek help or die. While Maglor didn’t particularly object to dying, an infected arrow wound seemed a bit of a silly way for the notorious last son of Feanor to go, so he staggered further into the valley and collapsed on the doorstep of the nearest building.

While the lord of this place was apparently away, the inhabitants were quite friendly and willing to help a random stranger. Soon enough Maglor found himself patched up and back on his way, feeling a great deal happier than before.

The second time, it wasn’t quite so accidental. Maglor had fallen into one of his bad times again, where the guilt of his deeds overwhelmed him and he wallowed in the sadness of his innumerable losses. He didn’t know why, exactly, but his feet took him to that hidden valley where the elves had helped him last time. It seemed a comforting place, and well, it wasn’t as if he had many places to go.

Once again, the lord was away, but the elves of the valley were pleased to welcome him again. They fussed over him and his battered appearance, to the point where Maglor felt as if he was back in Valinor with one of his aunts trying to fix him back up again. A few of the elves even remembered him from the last time he had come here, and Maglor dared say he was flattered to have been such a character that they still recalled his face. Laurefindil, that golden warrior of Gondolin, who seemed to be protecting this valley, watched with suspicion. Still, he did not seem to recognize Maglor, nor did he try to intervene, so Maglor supposed that was all well and good then.

The third time Maglor came there was nowhere near an accident and he knew it. He was simply tired. So, so tired of wandering and fighting and being alone for these long, long years. And so once again he set out in search of the valley that had twice welcomed him. This time, apparently, the Lord of the valley was home, and after a good deal of hugging and fussing, the residents insisted on taking Maglor to see him.

Maglor was apprehensive, but regardless of what would come, he was ready. Should the lord order him put to death, he would face it like a true son of Feanor. That much he could promise himself.

Death was not what awaited him, and Maglor was shocked to see young Elrond-not so young anymore-standing before him. “El-Elrond?”

“Atto?”

No one in the immediate vicinity dared move for a full minute, until the silence became almost unbearable.

Eventually, Elrond broke the spell by rushing forward to throw his arms around Maglor with enough forced that Maglor staggered a little.

“Careful, little star! You are not as small as you used to be!” Maglor grunted.

Elrond laughed sadly. “Indeed, I have grown some in the many long years since you have last seen me, although I was near full grown when you left.”

Maglor sighed. “I am sorry little star,” he said, and he did not know which of the many wrongs he had dealt Elrond that he was sorry for. “I thought-I was afraid that you wouldn’t wish to see me.”

“Of course I do, you idiot,” Elrond said, sounding remarkably like Elros used to. “After all, you’re still my father.”

Maglor didn’t know what to say, so he just held his son more tightly to him.

“I should have known that the ‘mysterious wanderer’ my citizens kept telling me about was you,” Elrond sighed, and Maglor couldn’t help but laugh.

“Indeed it was, little star.”

Maglor didn’t stay forever, for his guilt would not allow him to, but he did promise to visit.

“And if you disappear again, you utter bastard, I will find you,” Elrond promised, once again sounding so much like his brother that it hurt Maglor’s heart.

“I will not stay away too long,” Maglor said.

He didn’t. Oh, he tried, because pretty words and piecrust promises to Elrond aside, he was a murderer and an outcast, and he would only bring more danger upon the peaceful sanctuary of Imladris by spending more time there. He tried to stay away from Elrond, doing his best to keep Elrond safe, but he failed in the end. It was so hard and so lonely on the endless road, and Maglor was once again so, so tired.

Reluctantly, despite the sensible part of his brain screaming at him to stay far away, he returned to Rivendell. The residents, surprisingly, seemed no less glad to welcome him.

“Come, master wanderer! You need some food, and possibly a few hugs too, I think,” Called one of the elves that had been there for every visit of Maglor’s so far. The last Son of Feanor found himself surrounded by cheerful elves, all welcoming him back to the valley gladly. It was hard to not want to stay forever here, in the peace and kindness, and maybe look after Elrond a bit. The younger elf certainly needed some caring for; he had no sense when it came to taking care of himself! Maybe Maglor could stay.

Maglor did leave the valley eventually, but ever after, he was unable to stay away for too long. Sometimes a month, sometimes a few years, but never long on the infinite timescale of the elves. Every time, the elves of the valley were there to greet him, and often Elrond as well, smiling at the return of his wandering father. Imladris had become a place of peace for Maglor, a small rest from his endless wandering, and he much appreciated it. And so he continued to visit.

One year, after about two years away, he found a much-diminished valley. Few elves seemed to be around, and it was strangely quiet. Where the voices and chatter of elves usually filled the air, even the main city area was quiet and somber.

"Hello? Hello?" Maglor called.

"Ah, Master Wanderer! You have not chosen the best of times to come, I'm afraid," The one elf, the one who he had known for a while now, told him.

"Why, what's going on?" Maglor asked.

"My lord Elrond and the warriors of Imladris have left to war, Master Wanderer."

"War?" Maglor demanded. "What war? Where have they gone?"

"Well, you see, Sauron has been rising. You must know this, my friend. The elves and men have formed a Last Alliance. They're making a great effort to defeat Sauron for once and for all. His Majesty, High King Gil-galad, summoned my lord and his warriors to fight alongside them,” his somewhat-friend replied.  
 _Oh no. no no no no._ This was bad. This was very bad. Elrond couldn’t be fighting a war. _No._ He was far too young! _No._

"Are you alright, Master Wanderer?"

Maglor looked down. "Not particularly, no."

His friend wrapped him in a hug. "Do not be afraid. My lord will return, I'm sure. He has Lord Glorfindel and Imladris' best warriors with him."   
Maglor sighed, and allow the other elf to sit him down.

"It will be alright, never you fear,” his friend said. “Now come, tell me of your wanderings! Have you been to the south this time, or maybe over at Mithlond?" 

Maglor stayed in Imladris this time. The elves of Imladris persuaded him to not go riding off to war after Elrond, but they could not dissuade him from waiting until his son was home safely, nor did they seem inclined to try. Maglor staying meant more time that Maglor would be there to help out around the valley, telling the elflings his stories and putting in his share of work on protecting the valley. They seemed comforted to have the presence of such a legendary warrior of the First Age in such troubled times. Maglor's deeds had not been good, but they had been great and terrible, and he was more than an accomplished fighter.

After five long years, the Imladrian forces returned. Thank the Valar; Maglor did not have to look long before he saw Elrond riding at the head, looking tired and worn but healthy enough to satisfy Maglor.

"Elrond!" He called, his voice strong enough to speak over even the clamor of the elves greeting friends they had not seen in far too long and searching for their loved ones.

Elrond spotted him in the crowd and slid off his horse, directly into Maglor's arms. "Atto!"

"I heard you had gone to war-are you alright?"

"I am fine, Atto, but the same cannot be said for many of our warriors." Elrond looked down, face shadowed in grief. "And the high king is dead."

Maglor stared. "The...high king? Is dead?" Young Gil-galad, who had taken in Elrond and Elros so readily?

"Yes,” Elrond said shortly.

"Does that mean you are now the king of the Noldor?" Maglor asked, reviewing the family tree in his head. Unless Galadriel tried to seize the throne, it was Elrond's by right.

"No. Absolutely not. The Noldor will have no king, not anymore. I am content with Imladris.”

Maglor left once more, and the seasons passed. Every few years, Maglor would visit once again, and in this manner he watched Imladris grow. He watched the grief fade slowly from Elrond’s face as the seasons passed, and one day, he returned to find a new soon-to-be Lady of Imladris.

It was no exceptional visit, he happened to be passing through the area, and he decided that he might as well stop at Imladris. He was doing alright, but not as well as he would like, and he did want to check on Elrond as well, so he headed into the valley.

Approximately an hour later, Maglor was having the closest thing to an aneurysm that an elf could possibly manage. “You got ENGAGED? Without TELLING ME?”

Elrond, who was looking far more amused by this than Maglor would really prefer, nodded. “Yes, dearest atto, I got engaged. I was planning on telling you as soon as I could, but you don’t visit nearly often enough.”

Maglor flopped dramatically over the nearest piece of furniture, which he proceeded to regret immensely as it was a rather hard wooden chair. “I feel betrayed.”

Celebrian, Elrond’s soon-to-be wife, giggled. “Is he always like this, Elrond?”

“Usually, he is ever so slightly less dramatic, but I suppose in this case his dramatics might be warranted,” Elrond sighed.

“I haven’t been so offended since Nelyo assumed I didn’t know he and Fingon were a couple,” Maglor said, clambering back to his feet. “ I mean, honestly, the two of them were about as subtle about it as my father was about his hatred of uncle Nolofinwe.”

That got another laugh out of both of the young couple.

“And I better be invited to the wedding,” Maglor said, feeling remarkably like his old Valinor self.

“Of course, Atto. I thought, since, well, you’re the only parent I have who’s still on Middle Earth…you might want to be there.”

Maglor’s throat tightened. “Of course, little star.”

He stayed in Imladris up through the wedding, which was very sweet, and the party to celebrate, which involved a good deal of wine and good food, and much dancing. It was, after all, a celebration, and thus everyone was in good spirits and perfectly ready to hear Maglor’s stories of earlier days. In short, it was just Maglor’s sort of place, except when his cousin Artanis turned up and slapped him across the face.

“You absolute little shit,” She hissed, and oh, she was angry, alright. Artanis had never been one to do or feel things by halves, and her anger was no exception. “You fucker, you bastard, you pathetic excuse for an elf, how DARE you? How dare you disappear after the War of Wrath and make everyone believe that you’re dead and then show up 3000 years later at my DAUGHTER’S WEDDING?”

Maglor held up his hands. “Peace, peace, Artanis-“

“Galadriel,” she snarled.

“Galadriel,” Maglor conceded. “I promise, I’m not here to do any harm. Elrond asked me to be here for his wedding, and well, I do owe him.” There wasn’t a lot Maglor wouldn’t do for Elrond at this point.

“I’m not worried about that, you obscenely dense blob of horse spit,” Galadriel replied, her eyes blazing like his brother’s eyes used to blaze. “I’m angry, because you left. You left. Do you know how few of us there are left? How few grandchildren of Finwe?”

She gave him a moment to think about it before going on. “The answer is two. _We_ are the only survivors amongst our cousins, and the only others left of our house are Elrond and my daughter.”

_Oh._

“I’m sorry, I really am. I didn’t think you would” _miss_ _me_ “even want to see me,” Maglor said.

Galadriel huffed. “Well, you are annoying, but I can put up with you well enough now that the entire rest of the family doesn’t come stampede me as well.”

Maglor smiled. “I’m glad,” he said, and meant it.

Over the years that followed, Maglor found himself drawn steadily closer to Imladris. He tried not to because again, all he ever brought was harm, but he couldn’t help it. How could he, when the very place had healing energy, when his son was there? And so visits every ten years became visits every five years became visits every other year. And visits every other year became visits every year became visits every six months, and so Maglor was there when the first children of Elrond were born.

It had been a long and anxious few months, made more anxious for Maglor by the shadow of the grandmother he never got to meet, but everything went smoothly. Or, well, as smoothly as could be expected, according to Elrond. Maglor breathed a sigh of relief, as Elrond did not deserve any more loss in his life and Maglor had grown quite fond of Galadriel’s spirited daughter as well. She had a kind and lively spirit, like his cousin when she was younger, before the losses of the First Age, but less brash and more soft. At least, Maglor thought so. He was sure that any child of Elrond and Celebrian would be kind and strong twice over.

What he had thought would be one child turned out to be two.

“Twins. Elladan and Elrohir,” Elrond told him, smiling widely.

Maglor couldn’t help a smile in return. “Twins really do run in the family, I suppose.”

Elrond just laughed, more joyful than Maglor had seen him for far too many years. “So they do, I suppose. I may have to ask you for some advice when it comes to raising them.”

“I am a terrible person to ask for advice, and you know it,” Maglor said.

“Well, you are my father,” Elrond countered. “You didn’t seem to have a problem raising me and Elros.”

Maglor sighed and conceded. Elrond was not an easy elf to argue with, once he’d made up his mind. “I can give you my best advice, although I don’t know how good that will be.”

“Good enough for me,” Elrond replied.

Maglor left again after the first few months, despite any cajoling from Elrond. He had already stayed too long. Still, he continued to return to Imladris ever so often, and arrived in time for the third child of Elrond and Celebrian to be born.

“A girl this time. Arwen,” Elrond said, smiling with just as much joy, but more exhaustion, than the last time Maglor had been in Imladris for a birth. Elladan and Elrohir had turned out to be quite the handful, not that anyone had expected anything less from twin elflings. In Maglor’s experience, all elflings were quite the handful.

“Now you’re getting your comeuppance for all the times you tormented Nelyo and I as a child!” Maglor would become fond of saying whenever he visited Imladris and found Elrond in the process of extracting elflings from a tree, a well, or the roof, or attempting to get wild children to sleep, or simply flopping down in a chair and letting the children attack Glorfindel, a favorite of theirs.

Maglor’s relationship with the golden warrior was still tenuous, but Glorfindel seemed to have accepted him as just a fact of life when living with Elrond. Maglor, for his part, was glad that Elrond had Glorfindel as his friend. Despite any personal beef the two of them might have, Glorfindel was steady and reliable, as well as a fine warrior. Maglor had seen him fight, and he had serious doubts about if even he could take on Glorfindel and win. Glorfindel was a balrog-slayer after all, and Maglor was an out-of-practice kinslayer. Hopefully, though, it would never come to that and Maglor and Glorfindel could continue their tentative truce. Maglor was quite certain Elrond wouldn’t be pleased if either of them broke it.

And life went on. Maglor was a creature of long habit now, after years of wandering and developing routines, and so he routinely visited Imladris, if partially just to see how the young ones were doing. He knew from experience, elflings grew up awfully fast, and Maglor didn’t want to miss it. He was taking his duties as a grandparent rather seriously, as Elrond had remarked. To say that Maglor had been tearful at being called a grandparent would be a massive understatement, but he eventually just accepted that as part of his role in Elrond’s life now. Grandparent to Elrond’s children, and sweet children they were! Little Arwen adored his singing, and Elladan and Elrohir always demanded to hear more stories. They were rambunctious children, nearly as bad as Elros had been. Well…perhaps not quite so bad, when compared with Elros’ righteous anger at the Feanorians attacking his home and taking him and his brother away.

Valar, even now, after thousands of years, it still hurt to think of the son he had lost. Maglor could only imagine how painful it must have been-must still be-for Elrond. Still, he preferred not to dwell on it long, as while Maglor was mostly weathered by the long years, all his sharp edges worn away by the ravages of time, a flicker of the raging fire that he had once had still remained, and it was what spurred him to keep fighting. He would fight for his family every day he could. Artanis and Elrond, and, although he wouldn’t have thought so at first, Celebrian and the children as well.

Maglor was the one to find Celebrian, during that terrible time when she was taken. He stumbled across a cave of orcs, tormenting an elven lady, and found to his horror that he knew that lady. Maglor was the one to carry her on the long trek back. Maglor had to watch Elrond’s face as he brought her in, broken and so small and fragile compared to her usually lively spirit. Maglor held his grandchildren safely in his arms while Elrond fought, day after day, to keep Celebrian’s spirit on Arda. His needs came last, they had too, for there was a family breaking apart before his very eyes and Maglor was the only one steady enough to hold it together.

It was then that he formed some sort of alliance with Glorfindel and Erestor, as the golden warrior and grouchy councilor were the two other people holding Imladris together as everything threatened to break into a thousand little pieces. They couldn’t afford to break apart now, although if they did, Maglor knew they would come back together. Unfortunately, he had learned from personal experience that nothing could ever shatter too far to be put back together.

You got up. You got up, day after day, and you kept fighting for whatever reason of your own. The deep-rooted survival instincts of the elves were strong, and ultimately, it took a great deal to override them. If all else failed-and Maglor had seen all else fail enough times to know-then you would still have your life. You had yourself and maybe a friend or two, and you had your life and maybe a sword, and you could pull together a surprising amount from just that. Maglor knew. Still, it would certainly not be good if everything started crashing and burning now, so Maglor held it together.

The long years had broken down his pride enough that he could admit that he was glad to have the balrog-slayer and the Chief Councilor with him. Neither of them especially liked him, although Erestor had known Celebrimbor and they were able to bond over that, but they would do what they had to. Maglor respected that. It was how he had survived everything life had thrown at him so far.

And so Imladris existed in a strange state, frozen in time as Elrond tried to heal his wife and the children tried to heal themselves and Maglor and Glorfindel and Erestor tried to hold the city together. The stasis was only broken when Celebrian made the choice to sail, and together the family accompanied her to the docks.

Each person took a turn saying goodbye, and to Maglor’s great surprise, Celebrian insisted on saying goodbye to him as well.

“I must thank you,” she said, her voice thin and whispery, “for saving me there.” She shuddered. “And bringing me home.”

“I never could have left you, my lady,” Maglor replied.

Celebrian laughed brokenly. “I think we’ve moved past ‘lady’, my dear father-in-law. You have been here many years, and I am glad to have known you, even if this should be our last meeting.”

“As am I,” Maglor said, and tried not to cry.

The rest of the family said goodbye, and the grey ship with the white sails slowly meandered out of the harbor, picking up speed as it went. Maglor watched that grey ship with the white sails go, and wondered what the point of life and happiness was if all was ever to end in tragedy. Perhaps there was no point, no meaning to be found anywhere in the shadowed plains of Arda. Perhaps there was no meaning in Amen either, where all was artificially happy and the darkness inside buried deep under. Perhaps all he had done had been meaningless. Certainly the quest for the Silmarils had been.

But meaning or no meaning, Maglor still had a family who needed him, and so he picked himself back up. He refused to crumble now, when everyone and everything was cracking and breaking apart before his eyes. There would be a time, much later, where he could afford his strength to fail, where he could crumple to his knees and sob for this latest in a long series of losses, stretching back nearly as far as Maglor could remember, but that time was not today. That time would not be tomorrow. For now, he would use his last reserves of strength and his long years of experience to remain the steady figure that those around him so desperately needed. This was not the first loss he had suffered, and it would not be the last, if Maglor knew anything about this cruel, cruel world.

Arda Marred indeed.

The seasons went by, and Maglor dared not leave Imladris for longer than a few days at a time, lest everything go to pieces while he was away. One year. Another year. Two years. Eventually, he felt able to leave for longer, over two weeks, to go check on rangers of the north, with whom Elladan and Elrohir now spent much of their time. And a few months after that, he was away for a month to visit Bree, and a year after that, he left to the Greenwood to investigate some suspicious happenings. Ever so slowly, bit-by-bit, the household needed him just a little bit less, and Maglor, not wanting to risk any further harm to the city that had become his sanctuary, left. Not all at once, but slowly, a few trips at a time, he pulled away again, eventually leaving for almost two years.

When he returned, Imladris seemed almost normal again. He was greeted by the elf he had gotten to know over the many years, and all seemed cheery and bright again, with one exception: Glorfindel was back to silently ignoring him. Before, this would have been fine, ordinary, even, but to his surprise, Maglor found that it hurt. And that he cared to know why.

And so, when he next arrived at Imladris, he sought out Glorfindel. The golden warrior was in the training yard, sparring with the guards, so Maglor waited by the side as Glorfindel finished his match. As soon as the balrog-slayer saw Maglor, his face darkened, and he left the yard without acknowledging Maglor in the slightest.

Maglor hurried after him. “Laurefindil?” he called. “Laure?”

Glorfindel whirled around. “Only Elrond gets to call me that,” he snapped.

Maglor winced, recognizing that he’d messed up.

“Right then,” he murmured to himself. “Glorfindel?”

“What do you _want_?” Glorfindel demanded, turning once more from where he had been heading away from Maglor.

“I simply wished to know why you would not speak to me,” Maglor said, falling back on the formality that had always served his eldest brother well.

Glorfindel’s eyes blazed, and Maglor was reminded that the other was a legendary First Age warrior just like him. “You _left_. You left and you keep leaving. You leave when my lord needs you. You leave him over and over again, and do you know how hard that is? You’re never there when we need you.” His voice shook as he said, “Elrond didn’t get better. He just got better at pretending to be okay.”

_Oh. Oh no._

“I’ll tell you why I’m angry,” the warrior continued. “I have crossed the Helcaraxe, fought in the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, and faced a balrog. Yet I would die a hundred times over rather than see Elrond laying there, so still-“ his voice broke, and Maglor gained terrible clarity. _No. NO._

He pushed down his spiraling thoughts and held it together. “I-I’m so sorry, Glorfindel. I didn’t-I thought he was okay.”

“So did I,” Glorfindel said, the fight taken out of his voice a little.

“Is he alright?” Maglor asked, dreading what the answer would be.

“Physically, yes,” Glorfindel replied. “In all other ways? No.”

Maglor winced again. “Are you alright?”

Glorfindel stared at him for a moment. “No,” he admitted, and quietly crumpled into Maglor’s arms.   
All Maglor could do was hold him close and promise, “I won’t leave again, not until I’m certain that Elrond is alright and truly doesn’t need me.”

That seemed to be enough for Glorfindel, and they remained there for long minutes until at last Glorfindel pulled away. Maglor tactfully pretended not to notice how Glorfindel swiped at his eyes before they went on to go see Elrond. His son didn’t look as bad as Maglor had feared he would, but his face was drawn and thin, and he was clearly not doing well.

Maglor had already decided to stay in Imladris for a while, but when he could escape the other elves, he made his way to an outlook a good distance from the city, and screamed. His cries rang out over the mountains as he screamed until the powerful voice that could bring cities and kings to their knees gave out. Maglor’s own knees gave out with it and he crumpled to the ground, tears streaming down his face. For the first time in too long, he let himself cry for everything he had lost in his long, long life. He cried for his father and his brothers, long dead, and his mother, safe in Valinor but doomed to never see any of them again. He cried for the many cousins that had fallen, and the one who still lived, who had suffered too much herself. He cried for the son he had lost and the one back in Imladris still, who was suffering more than any elf ever should. He cried for the grandchildren who had grown up so fast, their innocence ripped away from them by the loss of their mother and the darkness of Arda Marred. He cried for the mother they had lost, the lady who had been so dearly beloved by so many. He cried for his tormented nephew and his many younger, kinder, more worthy relatives who had been lost to the darkness or flown away across the sea. Finduilas, Orodreth, Gil-galad, Idril, all fallen or sailed beyond where he could ever go, and Celebrimbor, who had not deserved any of what happened to him. He cried for himself and his own innocence, gone beyond any hope of return the second he had raised his sword against the peaceful Teleri of Alqualonde. He cried for the young and uncertain elf he had been and the old and beaten-down elf he was now.

By the time he started on his way back to Imladris, night had nearly fallen, and he was met by a worried Elrond.

“Do not worry, I was only investigating some potential orc tracks. It was perfectly safe, and I have returned safe,” Maglor said.

Elrond just nodded.

Maglor did not dare leave Imladris for a long time yet, compared to many of his other visits. When eventually, everything was stable enough for him to leave, he still did not stay away long. Maglor never wanted to come home to an angry Glorfindel and fragile Elrond again.

Maglor wasn’t certain precisely when he had begun to think of Imladris as home, but it was certainly the closest thing to a home Maglor had nowadays. And besides, as his mother had said, the family made the home, and Maglor’s family was in Imladris.

And so as the years went by, Maglor spent much of his time there. Still, he somehow managed to miss the arrival of Isildur’s heir by a good year. He had been gone for a while, out further west near the Shire and Mithlond, and when he returned, it was to an exhausted Elrond and a much put-upon Glorfindel, who was currently carrying a toddler on his shoulders.

“Hello?” Maglor questioned.

Glorfindel turned around, making sure to hold the child’s legs so he didn’t fall off Glorfindel’s head. “Good day, Maglor! Care to help me with this little rascal?”

Maglor helped him get the child off his head and soothed the young boy with his songs before asking, “Who, exactly, is this young rascal?”

“This young rascal is my lord’s newest foster,” Glorfindel said with an air of someone long-suffering. “Meet Aragorn son of Arathorn, although we call him Estel, since we hope he stops climbing on people.” The two old elves stared at each other until Glorfindel cracked up, soon followed by Maglor.

“I’m kidding, kidding,” Glorfindel said once he had regained his composure. “My lord thinks he will bring hope, and we’re calling him Estel until he’s old enough to learn his true name and destiny.”

Maglor nodded in understanding, and Glorfindel laughed, kind and friendly as always. “Speaking of my lord, he’s probably wondering where I am. Dastardly elf that he is, he passed this scamp off onto me, but he did tell me to be back soon.”

They found Elrond in his study, attempting to get some work done. He had been rather successful at that before they arrived, but now, Estel was perched cheerfully on his lap, babbling about his day.

“And-and I sit on Glorfy’s head! And then the weird guy, the one who’s all worn, came and he sang the most beautiful thing!”

Elrond looked amused. “Estel, meet your grandfather, Maglor.”

The child’s eyes went wide. “Grand-father?”

“Yes, your grandfather, my father,” Elrond explained kindly.

“Ohhhhhh,” Estel replied intelligently, and Maglor’s heart nearly melted. He had forgotten just how sweet children could be.

And the years went on and on, and Maglor watched young Estel grow oh-so-fast and the despair leave Elrond’s face far too slowly. Before he knew it, Estel was a bright young man of twenty and learning his true name, and then he was falling in love with Arwen and Oh Dear. Still, it was not Maglor’s role to dictate who could and could not love, so he let it happen and dreaded the grief that would follow from such a relationship. And Sauron was rising and Estel, who was now Aragorn, wandered with the rangers, and the darkness closed in.

So Maglor wandered, like he had always done, and aided where he could. The Greenwood, now most often called Mirkwood, was where much of his focus went, for if the Greenwood fell then there was little hope for the other elven kingdoms. Gondor and Rohan, too, needed him, and he would visit the Lothlorien when he could, always finding his cousin’s face grown just a little more drawn, just ever so slightly more closed off.

Maglor feared not Sauron nor any of his minions, for he had fought Morgoth for many years and then Sauron when he was strong for many more years after that, always quietly by the side of whatever people needed him the most. Maglor had seen balrogs and dragons and misery aplenty, had sent armies to their knees with his voice and watched cities rise and fall over his long years of existence. He had faced a Vala and heard of his uncle’s deeds in wounding one, he had slain his kin and faced the grief that had wrought.

No, Maglor did not fear Sauron, but there were still things in Arda that he feared. Maglor feared the pain in Galadriel’s face and Elrond’s eyes, the lust for revenge that had threatened to consume Elladan and Elrohir, the hopelessness that Erestor sometimes displayed. He feared Glorfindel’s recklessness and Aragorn’s insistence that he was not good enough for Arwen. He feared the terror in the faces of all the men of Gondor, the elves of Mirkwood and the people of Rohan, for a war cannot be fought with soldiers who are scared, who are tired and worn down by grief, who have fought too many winters or too few. Maglor knew.

And so while he was only one elf and could only fight so many by himself, Maglor put to use his skills in music and his mighty voice. Kanafinwe, they had named him. Strong-voiced. Well, he would need every last ounce of strength in that voice for the coming years, as he used it to rally soldiers to war and kindle the dying hope in the hearts of men and elves alike. Maglor might not be able to fight an army alone, but he was more than capable of bringing one to his side. The Voice of Hope, they deemed him, and he rode and fought alongside the armies wherever in Middle Earth needed aid the most.

It was so, so easy to fall back into the familiar routines of the First Age, walking amongst the soldiers, using his songs and his words to bring hope to them, taking any loyalty they might have to his family and twisting that into the courage to fight another day. Of course, in this age, not many amongst the men had even heard of his family, and most elves scorned it, but Maglor could take other loyalties. Their loyalty to their royal or leader, their loyalty to Maglor personally as a solider who fought with them, or even their loyalty to some legacy of their family. Over the years, Maglor had gotten very, very skilled at finding what could motivate the despairing and the grief-struck to get back on their feet and keep fighting, even in the face of overwhelming odds.

He'd had to.


	2. The War of the Ring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So guys, I wasn't expecting to have the new chapter up before next week (although I suppose I did say it might go up on Friday, so technically I kept my promise there), but I was hit by the need to be productive tonight so here you go!
> 
> Warnings for violence, mentions of character death, and general fucked-up-ness because Maglor hasn't been in a good headspace since he left Valinor, essentially. Again, a lot of terrible things are referenced but not described graphically.

At the time the Fellowship of the Ring was sent out from Imladris, Maglor was in Rohan, living amongst the horse-people and doing his best to undo the influence of Saruman on the king. He missed most of the significant events, all the way until Prince Legolas Thranduilion, a dwarf by the name of Gimli Gloinul, Gandalf the Grey, and his very own grandson Aragorn came riding into Edoras on borrowed horses.

“Estel!” Maglor called, waving to get Aragorn’s attention.

Aragorn turned, looking shocked for a moment before his face relaxed into a smile. “Grandfather!”

Maglor rushed from his position with the Rohirrim to give Aragorn a hug, proper manners be damned. “I haven’t seen you in far too long.”

“You’ve been away far too long,” Aragorn countered. “Ada has been missing you.”

Maglor winced. “I know, but I have my duties and obligations to the people of this world, just as you and your ada do.”

“Can someone explain what the bloody hell is going on?” Demanded the dwarf who rode with them.

Maglor couldn’t resist a chuckle. “Well, master dwarf, I am Maglor son of Feanor, and I have not seen my grandson here, Estel, in a good two years.”

“That cleared up absolutely nothing, laddie,” Gimli announced as Legolas looked like he was about to have an aneurysm.

“Maglor….Feanorion? Maglor Feanorion? Maglor FEANORION?” The prince demanded, looking almost like a young Thranduil. “It is a strange day that we live in now, that legends of the First Age return to life!”

Maglor was secretly glad he had said ‘legends’ and not ‘horror stories’.

Gandalf looked thoughtful. “Maglor Feanorion, indeed?”

Maglor offered his most dramatic bow. “The one and only, at your service.” He figured that if he was about to die at the hands of a Maia, he might as well go out with a bang.

Gandalf frowned ominously, tapping his staff on the ground, and Maglor slowly stepped away from Aragorn.

“Tell-“ his voice stuck in his throat. “Tell Elrond I’m sorry.”

“For Eru’s sake, I am not going to kill you, Maglor Feanorion!” Gandalf thundered.

n the silence that followed, Gimli spoke up again. “Would someone mind explainin’ who exactly Maglor Feanorion is?”

Aragorn laughed, sounding somewhere between nervous and very relieved. “Grandpa Maglor, would you like to explain?”

“To cut it very, very short, I am Lord Elrond’s father,” Maglor said, offering them his best shit-eating grin, reminiscent of his brother Celegorm.

Aragorn sighed. “He’s a son of Feanor, the most notorious of the Noldor-the Noldor are a kind of elf-and a warrior of the First Age.”

“Also a murderer,” Maglor cut in.

“Also a kinslayer,” Aragorn conceded. “You see, Feanor made three gems named the Silmarils, which were stolen by Morgoth, the dark lord before Sauron-“

“-and he also killed my grandfather-“

“-and Morgoth also killed the High King of the Noldor, King Finwe. Feanor and his sons swore an oath to retrieve the gems at any cost.”

“Neither love nor law nor league of swords...” Maglor quoted softly.

“Shhhh, grandfather. As I was saying, they were forced by their oath into slaying other elves three times-“

“Four,” Maglor corrected. “We killed the guards watching over the Silmarils after the War of Wrath.”

“Four,” Aragorn sighed. “The third time was at the Havens at Sirion, where Elwing-“

“-Your grandmother-“

“-was living, with her sons Elrond and Elros. Elwing threw herself off a cliff into the ocean with the Silmaril and was turned into a bird by Ulmo, Vala of the ocean-“

“-actually, she threw herself off her tower, and it was our fault”

“Grandfather, I’m trying to give him the short history,” Aragorn sighed. “Anyways, the remaining sons of Feanor-“

“-me and my brother Nelyo-“

“-took in Elrond and Elros.”

“And little devils they were too!” Maglor exclaimed.

“Grandfather, please.”

“Alright, I’ll stop interrupting. Go on, Estel.”

Aragorn sighed heavily. “Anyways. The sons of Feanor raised the twins until they were old enough to be sent to the current High King of the Noldor, High King Gil-galad.”

“Well, actually, we abandoned them at Gil-galad’s camp, but yes.”

“At the end of the War of Wrath, a massive war against Morgoth, Maedhros and Maglor, last sons of Feanor, stole the Silmarils from the hosts of the Valar. However, because of their deeds, the Silmarils burned them.” He glanced at Maglor, worriedly, as if asking if the next part was alright to say.

Maglor simply said it himself “My last surviving brother, Maedhros, overwhelmed by grief and guilt, threw himself into a fiery chasm. I threw my Silmaril into the sea and left to wander Middle Earth forever.” He did his best to keep his face blank and emotionless.

“Shit, laddie,” Gimli said. “I’m sorry.”

“It was a very long time ago.” It had been long enough that Maglor was almost numb to the grief by now.

For the first time in a while, Legolas butted in. “You still have not explained how you ended up in Imladris.”

Aragorn and Maglor looked at each other.

“Don’t look at me, I wasn’t born yet!” Aragorn protested.

“And neither were Elladan and Elrohir, nor Prince Legolas here,” Maglor agreed. “To cut a very, very long story short, I was wounded by an orc arrow, sometime in the late Second Age, and in my wanderings was forced to seek help at the young city of Imladris. It became a place where I could go when I needed help, and eventually, it became my home, as much as I have any one home nowadays.”

After Gandalf achieved what Maglor could not and banished Saruman from Théoden, they set off for Helms Deep, the ancient stronghold of Rohan.

* * *

Maglor really hoped it was not his bad luck that had brought the wargs down on them. If it was, well, it was his fault that most of them were about to die. There were too few Rohirrim for how many wargs had come running down out of the hills, and even Maglor could only help so much. He slashed through another warg and saw Aragorn being dragged by one of the beasts. Maglor leapt towards his grandson, moving as fast as the terrain would allow him, but he was too late and over the edge went both the warg and Aragorn.

And suddenly the falling figure had red hair, not brown, and the cliff wasn’t a relatively short drop into a river, but an infinite gaping chasm into the fiery center of Arda. Maglor was vaguely aware that he had sunk to his knees as he watched his brother fall again, felt the gaping agony of that loss, and he was alone, so, so alone, his sons abandoned and his last remaining brother gone, and the Silmaril still burned him and it hurt, it hurt-

Maglor was abruptly aware of a large, rough hand shaking his shoulder.

“Laddie?” A voice asked. “Are ye alright?”

Maglor slowly came back to himself enough to recognize Gimli the dwarf standing next to him and Prince Legolas hovering by Gimli’s side.

“Are ye alright?” Gimli asked again.

Maglor shoved down the memories again. “Just…memories. Just memories.”

Legolas was staring around the area. “Gimli, where is Aragorn?” He asked, and Maglor’s dread grew, knowing what he would have to tell them.

“He’s dead,” Maglor said hoarsely. Both of the others turned to look at him.

“I watched a warg drag him off that cliff,” Maglor continued. “He’s gone.”

Legolas ran over to look, and Maglor watched the grief creep across his oh-so-young, oh-so-hopeful face as the prince slowly realized that Aragorn was truly gone. He reminded Maglor of Elros, with the hope that had faded away as Elros grew. Maglor shook his head to clear those thoughts away, and pushed himself to his feet. There would be a time for grief later, but for now, they had to keep moving. He pushed down his guilt (this was all his fault), shame (what was he going to tell Elrond?), and grief (Aragorn was gone, the young man who looked so much like Elros but acted so much like Elrond, Maglor’s kind and brave grandson.). There would be time for those worries later. For now, Maglor was the most steady amongst the group, the oldest and most experienced, and they would need him.

As they entered Helms Deep, Maglor began to doubt somewhat what good even his experience would do. Certainly, these walls were strong and sturdy, but even sturdy walls could only do so much good against ten thousand orcs, and Rohan had very few soldiers left. Maybe, perhaps, with three hundred of the finest elves that had once helped Maedhros defend Himring, it would be possible to hold the walls. But three hundred scared, barely trained men of Rohan? They would be lucky to last the night. Maglor saw young boys and old men being given armor, and was painfully reminded of the desperate days later on in Beleriand, when everyone strong enough to hold a sword was give one. Even the young Elrond and Elros had been forced to fight, much to Maglor’s dismay. Of course, the twins had fought in the War of Wrath later as well, but they had been older and with the safety of Gil-galad’s legions, not the tiny band of Feanorians.

Maglor was shaken out of his thoughts by the booming sound of doors being pushed open and some joyful cries from the keep. He turned in time to see Aragorn, miraculously alive and well, if rather dirty and dripping wet.

“Estel?” Maglor asked, hardly daring to believe it could be him.

Aragorn’s face lit up beneath all the grime, flashing the same sweet smile he’d had since he was a small child.

“Grandfather,” He said, still smiling softly.

Even Maglor’s golden tongue couldn’t describe how glad he was to see Aragorn safe and alive. Words failed him, so he simply embraced Estel.  
Thankfully, the young adan seemed to understand what Maglor meant, and returned the embrace.

“You’re filthy,” Maglor said, at last finding his voice.

Aragorn chuckled. “I know, I’m sorry. I’ve gotten you all dirty, haven’t I?”

“I’ve seen much worse than a little dirt, don’t worry about it,” Maglor replied. Aragorn laughed.

That was a brief moment of relief, but soon it was back to worrying about the approaching army of orcs. Maglor was glad that Aragorn was alive, but he was not glad that he was here. While it was true that nowhere in Middle Earth was truly ‘safe’ with Sauron’s armies running rampant, Helms Deep currently was likely one of the most deadly places to be. They were going to die, no way around it.

Later that day, Maglor walked into the armory, intent on finding a good knife or two from the many extra Rohan had-there were more swords than men at this point-and ended up in the middle of an argument between Aragorn and Legolas on exactly that topic. From what he caught of it, Legolas was despairing at their chances, and Aragorn was furious with him.

“Then I will die as one of them!” Aragorn shouted in Westron, and stalked out of the room. Legolas was left standing there silently. Maglor debated for a moment if he should go after his grandson, but he decided that the young prince of Greenwood needed him right now.

“Legolas!” He called.

Legolas turned, seeming very young and uncertain to Maglor’s eyes.

“Why do you despair?” Maglor asked, careful to use his best Sindarin.

“Can you not see that we are doomed?” Legolas asked, gesturing around. “The orcs are too many and our soldiers too few, too young and inexperienced. They are terrified, Prince Maglor.”

“I am no prince, not anymore, young one,” Maglor said. “Yet I have wisdom to offer, if not a title to go with it. I have lived many years. I know that we are doomed to die here, but a doom has never stopped me from fighting before. You forget what impossible odds I faced, and what terrible battles I lived through. Regardless if we fight or not, we will not last long, but if we fight, at the least we have a chance of salvation. Perhaps aid will come at the last minute. Perhaps we will be able to run.” He looked Legolas in the eyes. “And even if all else fails, I would have our end be worthy of song.”

Legolas laughed, but not unkindly. “Of course you would. You are very Feanorian.”

Maglor offered his own smile in response. “I do doubt if it’s the Feanorian genes, or my own personality, for goodness knows Nelyo-you would know him by the name of Maedhros Feanorion-was never this dramatic. To be fair, my other brothers were nearly as dramatic as I. Ah well, perhaps I’ll get to see them soon enough, and learn if I’m truly the most dramatic in the family.”

Legolas’ face became serious once more. “I don’t suppose you fear the grief it would bring on your family to hear of your death, seeing as most of them are no longer on Middle Earth.”

Maglor’s heart clenched as he thought of Elrond, many miles away in Imladris and unaware of the impending doom of both his son and his father. Ai, he does not deserve this. “I do fear for my son,” He said softly.

“Your-“

“Lord Elrond.”

“Oh.”

A moment passed in silence before Legolas spoke again. “I fear that my father would fade if he heard news of my death. He has lost so much already.”

“I fear the same for my son. He has lost more than anyone should ever have to, and I do wish to live, if only for his sake,” Maglor replied, slow and solemn. “Should we fall here, he will lose both son and father in a single blow, and my granddaughter Arwen will lose her love as well.”

“I wish it did not have to be so,” Legolas sighed.

“So do I, my young prince. So do I.”

Another beat passed before Maglor continued. “But I am ever an optimist, and so I will say that perhaps it does not have to be so. We may yet live-help may yet come from some unknown source. Have hope, Legolas.”

“I will try,” The prince said, and they each left to their separate tasks.

The battle for Helms Deep was fierce and at many points during it, Maglor feared greatly that they would not live to see the sunrise. The wall fell. The outer keep fell. Soon they were bracing against a door that was being battered by the huge battering ram the orcs had brought, and Aragorn was offering to act as a distraction.

“How much time do you need?” He asked Theoden.

“As much as you can buy us, the king replied grimly.

Aragorn and Gimli turned to go fight, and Maglor stopped them. “I will go instead. I have many thousands of years of experience, I will hold them longer.” _And we cannot afford to lose either of you_ went unsaid.

“But grandfather-“ Aragorn protested.

“I am not going to have to tell Elrond that his son died doing an egregiously stupid thing,” Maglor said, and it was a certainty. Aragorn fell silent.

“Alright, lad,” Gimli said. “Good luck, an’ you better come back safe!”

Maglor drew his twin swords, fine Feanorian blades, and launched himself across the gap to stand before the doors, slashing through any orc in his vicinity. Maglor was a fine fighter, his skill honed from years of experience, but he had doubts about how long even he could keep this up. There seemed to be infinite orcs, rushing at him one after another as his arms grew heavier and his strength began to wear thin. It would take but one slip and he would be finished.

Still, he remembered what he had told Legolas earlier. If he were to fall in this battle, it would be an end worthy of song, a death worthy of the last son of Feanor. Maglor had not survived three ages of Arda to slip quietly into the Halls of Mandos. If he was going to go out, he would go out with a bang.  
With his resolve set more firmly in his mind, Maglor steadied his stance and braced himself against the endless waves of orcs. He would endure. He would withstand. He would outlast like he’d done a thousand times before.

Alas, despite his resolve, even elven strength couldn’t last forever, and a sword slipped through Maglor’s guard, slicing at his left arm and rendering it nearly useless for fighting. Maglor winced but pushed himself back up, parrying blows with his right arm. Right, left, center, parry that attack from the side- A second blow struck him in the side, and Maglor fell to his knees before the relentless tide. He would die-he was dying- but on the distant horizon he saw the faint beginnings of dawn. The sun. Hope. The faint rays of light leant him the courage to raise his sword one last time before a final blow struck and he collapsed completely. _An end worthy of song_ , Maglor thought, and the darkness claimed him.

When Maglor woke up, he was decidedly not in the Halls of Mandos. Well, he couldn’t know that for certain, but he was guessing that the Halls of Mandos did not have warm beds or healers bustling around, attending to the wounded. He also supposed there wouldn’t be any wounded in the Halls of Mandos, nor would Aragorn and Gimli be sitting next to him even if the battle had gone terribly wrong and both had been slain as well. Legolas might have been there, but Aragorn and Gimli? Certainly not. Maglor also sincerely doubted that his side, arm, and shoulder would hurt quite so much if he was truly dead.

Aragorn seemed to notice that Maglor was awake. “You-you idiot! You complete and utter idiot,” He exclaimed, sounding near exactly like Elrond.

“Now, calm down, lad, we’re glad to see him healed, aren’t we?” Gimli said, steady and reliable as always.

“Well, yes, we are,” Aragorn sighed, “but we’re also furious that he put himself in such great danger.”

“Indeed,” Legolas agreed, sounding remarkably like his father. “An end worthy of song indeed, Master Maglor.”

Maglor laughed and instantly regretted it as his side screamed in pain. “I’m sorry to worry you, dearest grandson and companions, but I promised to buy time and I did.”

“Very well, too, but never do that again or ada will kill me,” Aragorn sighed.

Maglor restrained another laugh. “Elrond cares about you far too much to ever do that, and it is I who ought to be responsible for you, not the other way around. Now can someone explain just how it is that I’m alive?”

“I went to get you,” His grandson said.

“He went to get you,” Legolas and Gimli agreed in unison.

“Idiotically,” Legolas added.

“Idiotically,” Gimli grumped.

“So our overall consensus is that you’re an idiot and so is Estel,” Legolas said.

“But idiots who we’re glad to see alive,” Gimli agreed.

Aragorn sighed again. “They’ve been on me about it all day.”

Maglor had to restrain yet another laugh, but quickly sobered. “How many fallen?”

“Many. We don’t know the final count, but it’s…not good,” Aragorn said. “Of the elves of the Lothlorien, most are alright, but Haldir is fallen.”

Maglor had seen the warrior fall, but hearing it made it somehow more real. He had not known Haldir well, but he knew the captain of the Marchwardens had been a brave and true elf and he mourned for that loss. Once again, however, there was little time for grief, and so Maglor pushed it away and focused on the present.

“Where are we to go from here?”

“Isengard,” Aragorn’s reply came.

And onward to Isengard they went.

* * *

When they arrived, they found two hobbits sitting and smoking. Maglor did not know them, but Legolas, Aragorn, Gimli, and Gandalf apparently did, and there were many cries of delight and outrage.

And that was how Maglor met Merry and Pippin.

“Who’s this tall elf fellow with you, Aragorn?” Pippin asked.

Aragorn glanced at Maglor as if asking what he should tell Pippin.

“I’m his grandpa,” Maglor said. “Maglor Feanorion, at your service.”

“Oh! Well I’m Peregrin Took, and this here is my cousin Meriadoc Brandybuck, but everyone calls us Merry and Pippin.”

Maglor stared at them, astonished that it had been so simple. Hobbits were truly remarkable creatures.

“I should also warn you, I am a kinslayer, a warrior, and, technically, a kidnapper,” He told them, torn between laughing and seriousness.

“Technically?” Merry asked.

“It’s a long story…”

Much talking and a partial recitation of the Noldolante later, Merry and Pippin were somewhat up to speed on Maglor’s past.

“Say that one more time-you kidnapped then raised Lord Elrond?” Merry asked.

“Isn’t he really old?” Pippin wanted to know, and then immediately clapped a hand over his mouth as Maglor tried to stifle his laughter.

“Yes indeed he is, by your standards. He has seen over 6000 years on Middle Earth. Yet I am even older, Master Pippin.”

“And by your standards?”

“Young still, although I suppose he will always be young to me,” Maglor replied. _My little star._

After more catching up, they continued into Isengard. It was nearly completely flooded, apparently by the work of ents. While the rest went to confront Saruman, Maglor ended up talking to a few of said ents.

“You are not alike those elves who once taught us to speak, I do not suppose,” Treebeard said slowly.

“No, I would not imagine, as I am of the Noldor, the high elves,” Maglor told him.

“Ah, ah yes…yet I have heard your songs on the wind before, young one.”

Maglor smiled sadly. “I am not so young.”

“Ah yes…but you are still quick to the ents. You move swift and fight your fights…sing your songs…you would be a very quick ent, although amongst your kindred you seem slow and wise.”

Maglor found himself smiling for real. “I’m not so certain about wise, but I have gotten slower now that I’m older, certainly. Life seems to rush by me much faster than in my days of youth.”

“Hmmm. Indeed.”

Maglor met up with the rest of the group later. Saruman had fled, apparently, and he had left behind one of the palantiri. Maglor eyed it suspiciously.

“We ought to do something about that, Mithrandir,” He warned. “I know how to deactivate them-they are my father’s invention after all.”

“We may yet learn from it, leave it be for now,” Gandalf replied. Maglor frowned, but conceded. The Palantiri were dangerous for certain, but perhaps they could gain some from this one. Maglor knew how to control them, after all.

It turned out that not deactivating it was a very, very poor idea. Pippin, being the curious young hobbit he was, had taken a look at it. Now, he and Gandalf were riding to Minas Tirith as fast as Shadowfax could carry them, and the rest of the Fellowship plus Maglor were staying with the armies of Rohan on their way to bring aid to Gondor. With their victory at Helms Deep, the battle for Rohan was over, but the battle for Gondor had just begun. The soldiers of Rohan were desperately needed, as was Maglor’s ability to rally soldiers and bring hope. They rode onward, hoping that it wouldn’t be too late for Minas Tirith by the time they reached Gondor.

At some point along the way, they were joined by a company of rangers, as well as two more of Maglor’s grandchildren.

“Elladan, Elrohir!”

“Grandfather!” Both twins called.

“What are you doing here?”

“We’re here with a message from ada and to aid Estel, what are you doing here?” Elladan asked.

“I was in Rohan when Estel and his friends arrived, and I’m now here protecting him.”

“Speaking of that, where is Estel?” Elrohir wanted to know.

Aragorn soon emerged from amongst the forces of Rohan to greet his older brothers and explain to them the situation.

“Gondor is in peril,” He told them.

“I would imagine so,” Elladan replied. They talked amongst themselves, and before Maglor knew it, his grandsons were attempting to do yet another extremely stupid thing.

“You are _not_ going on the paths of the dead. Not if I have anything to say about it,” Maglor insisted, wondering how all of Elrond's brains seemed to have entirely skipped over these three.

“I have to go. We need the ghost army,” Aragorn argued.

“We need you more,” Maglor replied.

Aragorn winced. “Those paths do not represent certain death. I will emerge with more soldiers for us.”

“It’s too dangerous,” Maglor insisted. “As your grandfather, I forbid it.” He hated to play that card, but he had to.

“You cannot stop me, grandfather. I must do this.”

“Fine, then I will come with you.”

“And so will we!” Gimli put in. “Don’t think we’re leaving you now, lad!”

“In this case, Gimli speaks for the two of us,” Legolas agreed. “Not in any universe would we allow you to do such a stupidly dangerous thing alone, Estel.”

Aragorn just sighed. “I suppose there’s no chance of dissuading any of you?”

“None whatsoever,” Maglor replied.

Aragorn sighed again. “Alright, you can come. All three of you,” He added as Legolas and Gimli stared him down.

“Good,” Legolas said, smiling sweetly.

“Indeed,” Gimli agreed, and Maglor trailed after the three of them, wondering what, exactly, he had gotten himself into.

It turned out, trouble, as soon enough they were riding into a place where Maglor could sense more than a little malevolent energy.

“The ghostly inhabitants of this place are not pleased that we’re here, Aragorn,” He warned.

“No, I don’t imagine so,” Aragorn called back. “We will simply have to press onward.”

Maglor sighed and continued weaving a net of songs around them, hopefully shielding the members of the group from the worst of the fear. He did not fear these ghosts nor these tunnels, for he had seen much worse, but even he felt the creeping unease of this place as they moved further under the ground. An eerie place this was, haunted by restless dead. It had a sense of being frozen in time, as if these halls had not seen a single change since the day Isildur had cursed these men. It seemed that at least they had not seen any travelers, as the dust was thick upon the ground. Out from the walls crept spirits, surrounding their little company and drawing ever closer as they advanced.

“Halt!” the leaders of the ghosts called. They froze in place, and Maglor quietly stepped up to stand just behind and to the right of Aragorn. Were this to go wrong, things could go south quite quickly.

“Who dares enter these halls?” The ghost king demanded.

“It is I, Aragorn son of Arathorn, Heir of Isildur,” Aragorn replied. “And I bring with me my companions Gimli Gloinul, Legolas Thranduilion, and Maglor son of Feanor, as well as the rest in my company.”

The ghostly king frowned. “That cannot be,” He boomed. “The dead do not suffer the living to pass, and no heir of the cowardly Isildur would dare walk this path.”

“This heir dares, and you would respect that,” Aragorn cried. He drew the sword of Elendil, reformed expertly in Imladris. “I bear Anduril, Flame of the West, forged from the shards of Narsil. Only Isildur’s heir could bear this sword.”

The ghosts murmured amongst themselves, whispers spreading amongst the company.

“And if we believe your tale, why do you dare venture here, Isildur’s heir?” The ghost king asked at last.

“I summon you to fulfill your oath.”

That sparked a whole new series of murmurs. “And if we do fulfill it, will we be freed as Isildur promised?”

“Fulfill this oath, and you will be freed from this half-life, able to pass on through the Paths of Men,” Aragorn promised.

“Very well, Aragorn son of Arathorn. We have betrayed Isildur, a hundred lifetimes ago, and now we will fight by the side of his heir.”

The ghosts swirled away into the darkness as Aragorn led on, closely flanked by Legolas and Gimli. Maglor dropped to the back of the company, keeping watch on the spirits that followed them. They may have been oath-bound, just like him, but their oath was one that could be easily broken. Maglor trusted in their hatred of this half-life to keep them loyal, but that wouldn’t stop him from keeping an eye on the ghosts. One would think he would understand them, as both him and the ghosts were oath-breakers, but these ghosts had broken their oath for cowardice and he had broken his own as a result of the harm it had caused. Maglor Feanorion may have been a murderer, a warrior, and a kidnapper, but he was not a coward. Feanorians did not desert their friends or allies in times of need. So no, Maglor did not trust these ghosts, and he would keep careful watch on them for Aragorn.

They made their way out of the Paths of the Dead, and stood at the river, waiting for the corsair ships to pass through.

“Halt, and surrender,” Aragorn called up to the pirates.

“And why would we do that?”

“Well, you’re about to be boarded.”

“Oh? By you and what army?” A pirate jeered.

“This army,” Aragorn said, and the rest of the company and the ghosts quickly leapt to fighting. The corsairs were decent fighters, Maglor would give them that, but they were mortal pirates, used to fighting on their territory on the seas. Here on a still river, they had none of the advantages of a rolling ship or even their cannon fire. In fact, more of them were fighting on the ground now, which put them at more of a disadvantage. Maglor and Legolas with their elven balance had leapt onto the ship, and the ghost army was fighting wherever they were needed. Which was everywhere, but they were quite effective, and soon the ships were filled with members of the Grey Company, Maglor, Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli.

As they sailed down the river, Maglor noticed Legolas staring out westward. “Thranduilion, what troubles you?” He asked.

Legolas turned towards him. “Hm? What?”

“I asked what troubled you.”  
“I can hear the sea,” Legolas murmured. “Ai, the gulls cry, and I long for white shores!”

_The sea longing. Of course._

“I am sorry, my young friend,” Maglor said. His voice was steady, even as his heart clenched. They would lose another young one over the sea, and while Valinor was where elves were meant to go, Maglor could not ever go there himself. He wanted the young prince to be happy, and if that meant being in Valinor, so be it, but he had a feeling Legolas did not want to leave Middle Earth just yet. Certainly, Maglor himself did not want the young prince to leave. It was selfish of him, but he knew he would be watching many of his kindred leave across the ocean in the coming years, and it hurt to watch as they left him one by one. Even elves he did not know hurt, as the leaving of the elves meant one more way in which Maglor was alone in this land now dominated by mortals. Every elf who left represented a mortal friend Maglor might make and then lose, as soon it would be just him left, the only elf amongst mortals.

And so Maglor stood by Legolas, offering up his steady, ancient presence. “If you would like, I might sing you a song to drown out the cries of the gulls.”

“I think that would be nice,” Legolas said, smilingly gratefully.

Maglor pulled out his harp and searched his mind for songs, eventually settling on a silly balled he used to sing to entertain his younger brothers and cousins. Legolas settled on a barrel, perching like a bird on the top, and Maglor sang. His voice, honed by many long years, could last for a long time, and eventually, he chose a lullaby that he used to sing for Elrond and Elros to lull the princeling to sleep. It was just as effective on the wood-elf as it had once been on a pair of young half-elven twins, and soon Maglor was able to pass a sleeping Legolas off to Gimli and Aragorn. 

“He needs rest,” Maglor instructed. “The sea-longing is strong in those of Sinda descent, and I am afraid to say it never goes away.”

Maglor had never been all too susceptible to the curse of sea longing, as he had already seen Aman and he knew well that he was banished. It was not that Maglor did not long to go back over the sea, but that longing was caused by a desire to see his mother and his homeland again, not by the longing for something they had never seen that could take other elves. Maglor counted himself lucky that he would never fall prey to that sort of sea longing, for it would certainly drive him mad with longing for something he could never have. Not that he didn’t already run that risk, Maglor noted with a bit of a sarcastic laugh. He would never again see the green fields of Valinor, nor feel his mother’s warm embrace. He would never see his brothers (Nelyo, Tyelko, Moryo, Curvo, Pityo, Telyo…), nor ever his father. For all that Feanor had his many faults, he had been a good father. He was ever by their side, helping them up if they feel, bandaging their scrapes, teaching them in the forge…Maglor shook off those memories. There would be a time for reminiscing, much, much later. There would be a time to yearn for the simple happiness of his youth, but that time was not now. Now, Maglor had a war to fight in and a grandson to look after. Elrond had forgiven him for a lot of things, but Maglor doubted Elrond would ever forgive him if Aragorn fell in battle under Maglor’s watch. Not that Maglor would ever forgive himself either, as his years with Aragorn would already be fleeting. Mortals’ lives were oh-so-short, especially when contrasted with the thousands of years Maglor had already lived. It would go by in the blink of an eye for him. So many things already did.

Soon enough, the ships were rounding the river bend. Aragorn had ordered the pirates’ flags to continue flying until the very last minute, a decision that Maglor greatly approved of. They would need the element of surprise if they were to get through this. The situation appeared dire indeed as they arrived at Minas Tirith. The armies of Gondor were seemingly tiny in comparison to the vast forces Sauron had mustered, and they were perilously close to losing.

“Change the flag!” Aragorn shouted, and the banner of the white tree began to fly over the ships. A great cheer went up from the defenders of Minas Tirith as the flag flapped in the breeze, and those aboard the ships leapt out, striking at the enemy in every way they could.

Maglor slashed his sword across an orcs’ neck and catapulted himself to wherever he was needed next. The defenders had rallied spirits, and those were lifted further as Maglor called out with his powerful voice, singing a song of courage and strength. This was not the song of assured victory, the song that told the soldiers they were stronger than anything else, but the song of hope even in face of overwhelming odds. Maglor’s song did not promise they would all live, but it told them that victory was possible and that evil would not endure forever. And on and on the song went as on and on went the battle. _Strike left here, right, there’s an orc behind you, where is Aragorn-_ Maglor leapt and struck at the orc who would have taken out his grandson. Aragorn simply nodded at him and continued on his own path across the battlefield. Maglor let himself be consumed by the song of the steel, his blades cutting across any orc who stood in his path as the song of his voice echoed above the chaos and brought hope to those who fought beside him. Hope was his rallying cry as the much diminished forces of Gondor and Rohan fought alongside one another, as well as the Grey Company, seven members of the Fellowship, and a very old elf by the name of Maglor Feanorion. Hope. They might not have the numbers, but they had the spirit. Their odds were terrible, but hope, not despair, was the song that rose above all others.

When at last the battle was over, Maglor took a moment to snap out of his fighting mode. He sheathed his blades, but kept a hold of the handle in case any orcs were left, scanning the field for his grandson. He didn’t see Aragorn, but he did spot two of his companions, Merry and Pippin, over by where the witch king had been.

Maglor quickly hurried over, noting that Merry seemed to be having trouble with moving. “Pippin? Merry?”

“Maglor!” Both of the hobbits cried.

“What happened to the Witch King? Are you alright?”

“Well I’m all fine and dandy, but Merry and his friend here-“

“-Eowyn-“

“Got hurt fighting the Witch King,” Pippin finished, gesturing to a seemingly unconscious soldier of the Rohirrim. Maglor looked them over all three of them once again, and concluded that Merry and Eowyn both needed medical attention as soon as possible. He lifted Eowyn gently, her blond hair falling across his arm.

“Come, we must get them to the city as fast as possible.” Merry leaned on Pippin as Maglor led them across the battlefield, humming a song of healing under his breath and hoping that they would be swift enough to save Merry and Eowyn.

A rather long walk and several times asking for directions later, they arrived at the Houses of Healing, where the healers rushed them inside. Maglor helped Pippin place Merry onto one of the beds and set down Eowyn onto another. Aragorn arrived momentarily, and Maglor stood back. He watched as Aragorn used kingsfoil to help heal them, and the comforting scent drifted through the air. It smelled like old books and mist and mountains. It smelled like warm bread and woodsmoke and mint. It smelled like…home. Maglor searched for words to describe it, and came up short. Ah well, if they survived all this, he would have plenty of time to find an appropriate way to put it in the song he would write of the Fellowship’s adventures. Maybe he could ask Aragorn to describe it.

Speaking of Aragorn, the young Adan was sitting back exhaustedly.

“I’ve done all I can for now, and hopefully they will pull through. All three have a strong spirit,” He sighed, sounding very much like his father.

“They have very strong spirits, and I am sure they will make it. You did everything you can, and if all should fail now it is not your fault,” Maglor reassured him.

Aragorn sighed again, rubbing at his face. “Thank you, grandfather.”

Maglor squeezed his hand. “I can’t promise that everything is going to be okay, but this is going to be okay. They’re going to be okay. Now get some rest, young one. I’ll make sure everything doesn’t fall apart while you sleep.” Aragorn just nodded, his eyes already drooping, and let Maglor sing him softly to sleep.

Maglor did not dare leave the Houses of Healing, instead finding himself a chair, where he watched over the rest until sleep finally claimed him.

In the morning, when everything was bright and fresh, Maglor was forced to acknowledge that their odds of victory were slim. The combined armies of Rohan, Gondor, and the Grey Company all put together were still nowhere near at match for Sauron’s armies. Their only hope lay in two hobbits named Frodo and Sam, and even Gandalf despaired at Frodo and Sam’s chances of making it to Mt. Doom and being able to destroy the ring.

“They will be caught before they can even get close,” The wizard said. “Far too many orcs roam the plains which they will have to cross. There is no way we can succeed now.”

“Don’t say that, lad!” Gimli cried. “We’ve come so far, we can’t give up now.”

"I’m afraid we might have to,” Gandalf sighed.

Every inch of Maglor rebelled at the thought of giving up. Legolas had been right when they talked at Helms Deep; Maglor was a Feanorion, through and through. Feanorians didn’t give up, even in face of impossible odds.

“Gimli is right. We cannot give up now,” Maglor spoke up. “I refuse it. There may be little chance of success either way, but if we fight, at least there is some probability we might prevail. Even if there truly is no hope, we ought to have an honorable end.”

“Well-spoken, Feanorion,” Gandalf said. “Would you share any more of your long wisdom with us?”

Maglor was fairly certain he was being mocked. “I never thought you a coward, Olorin. You who have once faced Morgoth now fear to go up against his mere servant? I would duel Sauron myself if I thought it might help!”

Gandalf opened his mouth, but Aragorn cut him off. “Peace, Grandfather, Mithrandir. Maglor is right. We may not have much chance of victory, but we have even less chance to succeed if we never try. We will fight, not for any hope we might defeat Sauron’s armies, but so that Frodo and Sam may cross the plain while Sauron’s eye is focused elsewhere.

“A distraction,” Maglor said, marveling at his grandson’s cleverness. Perhaps he had some of Elrond's brains after all. “That just might be crazy enough to work.”

Eomer, Gandalf, Legolas, and the others in the war council were all nodding along.

“Certainty of death, small chance of success, what are we waiting for?” Gimli demanded. 

Maglor laughed. “I like your spirit, son of Gloin.”

“Aye, I got it from my father,” Gimli agreed.

“As I did with my own spirit,” Maglor said. It had been a while since Maglor, Son of Feanor, had made an appearance. Most often now he was Maglor the wanderer or Grandpa Maglor, and rarely did he display his fiery spirit. Maglor did not like to show his true ferocity; he did not like being the dangerous Son of Feanor. But desperate times called for desperate measures, and these times were certainly desperate. He would do what he had to in order to rally the others to fight.

And so they rode out to battle, with every person strong enough to wield a sword. Faramir, Eowyn, and Merry were staying behind, as none had healed fully from their run-in with the black breath, but with the armies went Pippin, Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, Eomer, and of course Maglor himself.

A few days later, they stood before the Black Gate, and Maglor watched Aragorn parley with the Mouth of Sauron. He saw the horror on everyone’s faces as the Mouth held up a mithril chainmail.

“That was Frodo’s…” Aragorn murmured.

“Sauron cannot have the ring, otherwise we would all have fallen already. We must assume that either Frodo or Sam lives and possesses the ring. Do not despair,” Maglor whispered to him.

“We do not believe you!” Aragorn called. “Regardless of the fate of Frodo, we will fight this day!”

As the parleying party returned behind the gate, Aragorn turned and rallied the men with a speech worthy of Maglor’s notorious father, finishing with “This day, we fight!”

He ran at the orcs alone, and the armies of men followed behind him. Maglor ran directly by his side, and soon they were in the thick of the battle. Maglor allow the song of the battle to take him once more, falling into the rhythms he had followed for thousands of years. His swords sang through the air and his voice joined them, enchanting orcs and smoothing the path for him. There were many possible universes in which Maglor might have fallen in this battle, but none at all in which he would allow Aragorn to fall. He could see that Legolas and Gimli felt the same about each other, as the elf and dwarf were defending each other fiercely. Axe and bow sang with the same rhythm as the song of battle rose and fell around them. Their opponents may have had the numbers, but the Men of the West were fighting for their homes, and it showed. In every face, in every battle cry, there was a determination Maglor had rarely seen matched in his many years. The elves of Beleriand, the Noldor left there and the Sindar, had fought like this during the War of Wrath, far outmatching the Valinor elves. Even Maglor’s uncle Finarfin, fighting to avenge the death of his sons and many of his niblings, hadn’t brought the same fervor to the battlefield. He had been surprisingly fierce though, far stronger than Maglor would have expected from peaceful Uncle Arafinwe. Although it was a fact of life, Maglor knew, that quiet and ‘weak’ elves were often stronger than they seemed. Elrond was proof of that, as was Maglor nowadays. All his sharp edges were worn away, but he had strength still.

He would need every ounce of that strength to make it through today’s battle, and so he redoubled his efforts, slashing at orcs with renewed grit. It seemed hopeless-it was hopeless, but if they could just hold out a little bit longer, they might have a chance to win this day. All of the sudden, the orcs began falling and running, disorganized suddenly. Sauron’s tower was falling and the forces of evil were yielding to the warriors of the west. Victory seemed to be upon them, but they had to watch as lava erupted from Mt. Doom, consuming all that stood in its path. The world may have been saved, but the heroes who saved it appeared to be gone.

That is, until a truly massive eagle came swooping down, bearing on it Gandalf and two hobbits. 

Before they knew it, they were back in Minas Tirith. Maglor wasn’t there when Frodo and Sam first woke up, but he did get to meet them soon after.

“Frodo, Sam, this is my grandfather Maglor,” Aragorn introduced.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Maglor, I’m Samwise Gamgee and this is my friend Mister Frodo Baggins,” Sam said, smiling genuinely.

Frodo, meanwhile, was staring at Maglor like Maglor had risen from the dead. “Aragorn…did you say your grandfather’s name was Maglor?”

“Maglor Feanorion, at your service,” Maglor said, already preparing for the onslaught.

Frodo turned to Aragorn. “Your grandfather. Is Maglor. Feanorion.”

Aragorn sighed. “It’s a long story.”

Maglor hardly even flinched at the fear on Frodo’s face. “I don’t intend any harm, don’t worry.” He offered a dry smile. “I may have been a kinslayer, but I promise I’m retired.”

To Maglor’s great surprise, Frodo laughed a little. “Well, if Aragorn trusts you, you can’t be all bad.”

“Mr. Frodo, who’s Maglor Feanorion?” Sam asked.

“To cut a very, very long story short, I am a warrior, a kinslayer, the son of the most notorious elf perhaps ever, and Elrond’s father, making me Estel’s grandfather by adoption.”

“Oh,” Sam said. “Well that’s all right and good then, and it’s a pleasure to meet you Mr. Maglor.”

“It’s really just Maglor,” Maglor insisted. Aragorn was smiling in faint amusement.

“We’re glad to meet you then, Maglor,” Frodo said, and that was that.

Before Maglor knew it, they were preparing for Aragorn’s coronation. He had to admit to being a little bit emotional as Gandalf placed the crown on Aragorn’s head. Aragorn had grown so far, from the young boy who had sat happily on Glorfindel’s head to the kingly man who now stood before them. He had grown up so fast-too fast, in Maglor’s opinion, but such was the way of things-and now was a king in his own right. He would be a good one too, if Maglor knew anything about how the boy had been raised. Elrond was a good father, and Erestor a wonderful teacher. Both had given Aragorn all the wisdom they had to offer. Glorfindel had taught him fighting, and Maglor had taught him how to sing and how to speak persuasively. Years on the road had taught him patience, Elrond had taught him healing, and Elladan and Elrohir had taught him how to use tricks. He was about as prepared as any man could be to take up the throne of Gondor, and yet Maglor worried. Maglor always worried, it was what he did. He supposed that was probably where Elrond got it from.

Speaking of Elrond, the Imladris elves had just shown up, and while Arwen was rushing to embrace Aragorn, Maglor made a beeline for his adopted son.

“Elrond!”

“Atto!”

They embraced, taking a moment amongst all the celebration to appreciate the fact that they were both here and very much alive.

“I have not seen you in too long,” Elrond said.

“I know, and I am sorry for that. I was very busy in Rohan and Gondor.”

“I understand, but I did miss you.”

“And I you, little star.”

Elrond held him tightly for a few more minutes before pulling back, mirth in his eyes. “You know who else missed you? Glorfindel.”

“I did not!” The warrior protested.

Maglor laughed. “You only missed my help in wrangling Elrond into getting proper sleep, didn’t you?”

It was easier to joke, easier to laugh, than it was to confront the possibility that Laurefindil truly cared. It was even harder to confront the possibility that maybe, Maglor cared for him too. It was far, far easier to just stay hostile. Enemies was easy. Enemies was safe. They would put up with each other for Elrond’s sake and never form any true connection. There would be no loss for either of them when Glorfindel ultimately sailed across the ocean and Maglor was left on Middle Earth.

Still, Maglor had been around for long enough to know that nothing worth doing was ever easy. No happiness came without sorrow mixed in as well. Rarely did love or friendship not end in loss.

And so Maglor hugged Glorfindel as well, and offered him a small and weary smile. “I’m glad to see you again, Glorfindel.”

“I’m glad to see you too, even if you can be dreadfully dramatic at times,” Glorfindel laughed.

Maglor dipped a dramatic bow. “Only the finest of dramatics here, I have _standards_ for my drama.”

“Overdramatic standards?”

“Shh! You do not understand the poetry of it all,” Maglor cried, dramatically falling backward, thankfully into Elrond.

Elrond just sighed, as if to say ‘why did I ever try to make you two be friends’. “I’ve created a monster, between the two of you, you’ll drive me as crazy as my children did when they were little.”

“You know we love you, Elrond.”

“I love you too, Laure.”

And in that way, they entered the new era of peace, laughing and joking and telling stories of times long past. They sang and danced at the feast to celebrate, and Maglor was there for Arwen and Aragorn’s wedding. It was a happy occasion for all. Maglor may have cried, a little or a lot, he preferred not to say. It was hard not to be emotional when there was so much happiness at the end of so much darkness, even with the foreshadowing of sorrow to come. This was the purest joy, perhaps, since Arwen’s birth. Maglor had held both Arwen and Aragorn when they were just babies, and now he watched them find happiness in each other’s arms. Beside him, Elrond was watching with mingled sorrow and joy. Arwen would find love and happiness-but Elrond would lose her forever. It reminded Maglor terribly of learning that Elros had made his choice and knowing that while Elros would be happy in the world of men, he would be lost to Maglor forever. There was a dreadful parallel there, which Maglor preferred not to think on long. There was already enough tragedy in this world; he would focus on the bits of hope that existed.

And so Maglor congratulated the young couple, danced at the feast, and drank a good deal of wine. He laughed and talked with his cousin Galadriel, and he, Galadriel, and Glorfindel found themselves passing quite a bit of the celebration together, telling stories of the First Age and reminiscing about olden days.

“And do you remember, Nelyo and Finno used to spend allllllll their time together?” Galadriel laughed.

“Oh yes, my brother was quite smitten with our cousin. Of course, father hated it and so did Uncle Nolofinwe.”

“I don’t need to hear your family drama,” Glorfindel complained, but chipped in with his own stories. It turned out that the lords of Gondolin had gotten into some quite funny shenanigans over the years they were together, and apparently Rog was at the center of 99% of them.

“Quite the character, he was. We all adored him of course, he was wonderful,” Glorfindel opined, waving his glass around.

“Well of course, he was the most fun of you lot!” Galadriel exclaimed.

“How dare you! I am clearly the most entertaining!”

“I believe we are forgetting who the greatest bard of the Noldor is, ahem,” Maglor said.

“Shhh, you weren’t a lord of Gondolin, you don’t count,” Galadriel told him.

Maglor pouted. “Am I not your favorite cousin, dearest Artanis?”

“Well, you were, but then you started calling me Artanis again, dearest cousin Kano.”

“Alas! Has Nelyo won your favor, then?”

“No, no, I’m afraid that goes to my dearest son-in-law Elrond.”

Glorfindel turned. “Hear that Elrond? You’re Galadriel’s _favorite_ cousin.”

“Beating out your old atto, no less!”

“You three are more trouble than my children,” Elrond sighed, but he was smiling.

* * *

All good things must come to an end eventually, and once the celebration was over, Maglor left for his wandering once again. He had been with the Fellowship and not all had gone to ruin, but it was still hard to shake himself of the idea that he brought death and destruction on his loved ones. And so once more, he left to wander the newly freed Middle Earth. He helped Thranduil’s forces kill the rest of the giant spiders that resided in Mirkwood, (and got to watch Thranduil have an aneurysm over Legolas falling in love with a dwarf), helped Aragorn get Gondor back on its feet, offered advice to the new king of Rohan, Eomer, and spent a while with his cousin in the Lothlorien. He even thought that Celeborn might be warming up to him, despite his initial threats to stab Maglor with his sword. Galadriel had most likely talked to him about it, given his newfound respect for Maglor. Or perhaps saving Celeborn and Maglor’s mutual grandchildren multiple times was a good way to get Celeborn to warm up to him. Either way, the stubborn Sinda lord tolerated him, at the very least. He even seemed almost friendly at times, which was quite the victory. Maglor still refused to linger long in the Lothlorien, but at the very least Celeborn wasn’t quite so hostile.

After three or so years, Maglor returned to Imladris and found the city mostly empty. It reminded him of how it looked when the War of the Last Alliance was being fought, and he worried for a bit that another war was going on.

What was happening wasn’t a war, but no less heartbreaking.

“We’re preparing to sail,” Elrond told him.

 _No._ Elrond couldn’t sail! Maglor knew Elrond needed to for his own healing, but if Elrond left, Maglor would truly be alone.

He didn’t realize he’d spoken that last thought out loud until Elrond replied.

“You’re not going to be alone because _you_ are coming with us.”

“I- I can’t, Elrond. I can’t go back to Valinor, I’m a kinslayer, and banished for life.”

Elrond was silent.

“I’m sorry, little star,” Maglor added.

“Sorry doesn’t cut it,” Elrond said, sounding once again more like his fierce brother than his usually quiet self.

Maglor winced back.

“You are coming, no matter if you like it or not, if only because I refuse to lose you again. You are coming, no matter what anyone says. I think I’ve earned the right to have at least one of my parents with me, even if all my family keeps leaving and dying.” His words were fierce, and Maglor thought he saw tears glimmering in those ancient grey eyes.

It was clear that Elrond was not taking no for an answer, so Maglor sighed and conceded. “I really hope I don’t get you in trouble with the Valar.”

“The Valar can go to the void for all I care. I’m not losing you again.”

“I won’t leave you now, little star,” Maglor promised.

“Good, since if you did, I would hunt you down myself,” Elrond said, but his tone didn’t match the fierceness of his words. He sounded almost fragile.

All Maglor could do was simply embrace him.

“I will not leave again,” he promised for a second time.

Elrond swiped at his eyes, turning away. “I love you, Atto.”

“And I you, Elrond.”

* * *

Before he knew it, Maglor was climbing on a boat to Valinor and trying very hard to not panic completely.

“Are you _sure_ this is a good idea?” Maglor asked for the fifth or sixth time. He hadn’t been counting.

Elrond apparently had, as he said, “You’ve asked me that five times already. I am quite certain, Atto. If I have to _beg_ the Valar to let you in, I am not above that.”

Maglor’s heart rebelled at the idea of oh-so-kind Elrond having to beg for anything.

“It won’t come to that, because I’d fight them first,” Glorfindel promised.

“I didn’t think you’d care that much,” Maglor said, unable to resist a little dig at Glorfindel.

“Oh shush, not for your sake, for Elrond’s sake, of course.”

“Of course.”

They climbed onto one of those grey ships with white sails, along with Bilbo and Frodo the hobbits, and Maglor’s cousin Artanis.

“Your rascal of a husband refused to come?” Maglor asked.

“He’s a wood-elf, he loves Middle Earth. I do hope he’ll be along eventually, but he was starting to drive me a little nuts.”

Maglor laughed, and it eased his nerves a bit. “He seemed a decent fellow, but he’s quite attached to his trees.”

“Quite indeed. He might love those trees more than he loves his own wife!”

“I do doubt he’d pass up a chance to see his beloved daughter again though,” Maglor said carefully.

“I’m sure he’ll be along,” Galadriel agreed. “And speaking of that, my daughter will be pleasantly surprised to see you again, dearest cousin.”

“I’ll be very glad to see her as well,” Maglor said, trying very hard not to let memories of Celebrian battered and broken rise to the forefront of his mind. He was only partially successful at shoving them down, and Galadriel must have sensed that.

She quietly patted him on the shoulder, which was surprisingly comforting coming from his terrifying baby cousin. “It will all be alright, my most melodramatic cousin.”

Maglor managed a wane smile in response as they watched Elrond stand with Bilbo and Frodo, staring back at Middle Earth and the children he had left behind. Maglor truly did hope Elladan and Elrohir would sail, as Elrond deserved to have no more heartbreak in his life and Maglor would miss them dearly were they to chose mortality or stay on Middle Earth. The second option was preferable to the first, however. Elladan and Elrohir had such bright, strong spirits, and it would be terrible to lose them entirely. At least if they chose elvenkind but stayed on Middle Earth, there was a chance to see them again one day.

Maglor shook those thoughts from his mind. For now, they were going onward to the green fields of Valinor, to Celebrian, and perhaps even some of Maglor’s cousins reborn. There was joy to be found in this life even if there was sorrow. And so Maglor turned to face westward.

While he would never forget those he had left behind, for now, he would face towards the future and the promise of tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hiding, once again* I'm sorry for how long this is! And I feel the need to apologize for that ending line because even if it didn't make you cry, it sure as hell made me cry and I'm sorry for writing heartbreaking shit all the time.
> 
> ....
> 
> There's also an epilogue to this, which is very short, only 300~ words, but you have to wait until next week for that! The likelihood that I'll get it up before Sunday at the earliest is very low. Anyways, Semp out, I need sleep too! (Occasionally.)


	3. One Last Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOOHOO FOLKS GUESS WHAT
> 
> NEW CHAPTER TIME
> 
> Anyways, please enjoy the very short epilogue with (for once) no dire warnings about content!

Maglor stood nervously before the door of the house, debating if this was really a good idea.

Certainly, the Valar had let him into Valinor, but his mother was far fiercer and about ten times scarier.

Eventually, Maglor summoned his courage and knocked on the plain door. It was several more agonizing moments before he heard hurried footsteps, and the door opened to reveal a redhead elf.

“I’ve said it time and time again, I’m not taking visitor-“ Her mouth fell open. “Makalaure?”

“Hello, Amme.”

His mother rushed forward to embrace him, pulling him in tightly with just as much strength as he remembered.

“Oof!” Maglor complained. “You hug hard, Amme.”

“I haven’t seen you in seven thousand years, I’ll hug you as hard as I please.”

Maglor had to acknowledge that that was probably fair. “I’m sorry Amme, I’ve been exiled and wandering and then I had to look after Elrond, which of course did eventually lead me here-“

“I don’t care how you got here, I only care that you’re here.”

There would be a time, much later, for Maglor to sing her his songs of exile and tell her his stories of Elrond and Elros, and the Fellowship of the Ring, and all his many years wandering, but now was not that time. Now was the time to hold each other close and revel simply in the fact that after so many years, the two surviving elves of the shattered, ruined family had found each other once more. And they were happy with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is so short, but it really didn't want to be longer. It felt right to keep it this length, so here you are!

**Author's Note:**

> Welp, folks, hope you liked it *hides*. There's more, I promise! But given how much of a beast these six thousand words were to get into a coherent chapter, I may be splitting the remaining 10k~ words into multiple chapters, if I can figure out how. We'll see. But either way, I promise it doesn't end here!


End file.
